


Come All Ye Lost

by voodoochild



Category: Alias
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-30
Updated: 2011-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the plane back from Guatemala, Jack apologizes to Irina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come All Ye Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XI, for the prompt "Jack/Irina, let me drown". Title from Damien Rice's "I Remember".

Though she doesn't want to see him, Jack comes to her anyway.

His damned ethics have gotten them into this. Elena and Sloane are out there with a city-sized Mueller Device and the goddamned CIA has turned their plane around because she is still a wanted terrorist. The American government has taken too much from Irina's daughter to ever earn her forgiveness, given Sydney to a man like Arvin Sloane to use as he sees fit, and even Jack's preventive measures can't do enough to save her. They've used her, as surely as Russia used Irina, in the name of patriotism and duty.

And they call her a terrorist. A warmonger. A whore who stole secrets from her husband. She hasn't done half of what Elena and Sloane have done - surely an entire year held prisoner in that bunker in Los Angeles and another year in that hellhole in Guatemala should have redeemed her? Earned her a little more of their trust?

Jack had threatened. Sydney had screamed. Nadia had begged.

 _Listen to her, she is our only chance against Elena and Sloane._

It hadn't done a bit of good, but it means more than Irina can say. Sydney had given Irina and Nadia space, time to be alone and talk. She's sent Nadia away to sleep, the sweet girl. The only one of her daughters to ever look her in the eye and see only a long-wished-for mother. Not that she blames Sydney - there are only so many lies one can hear before one doesn't care what the truth is any longer.

Their plane is over the Gulf of Mexico when Jack closes the cabin door and stands before it, hesitant with her the way he hasn't been for years. Well. She _did_ punch him in the jaw.

He _did_ shoot her in the head.

And yet, she cannot bring herself to hate him. She never could, not in those years after she was extracted, not when he stood by and almost let the CIA execute her, and not when he turned away from her in a hotel room in Cairo and told her Sydney was dead. Jack is, as ever, her pragmatic chessmaster, fiercely protective of their daughter.

He has changed, though, in small ways; the lines around his eyes are more pronounced, the silver creeping into his hair, a bit more softness around the middle. She misses his suits, of course, but seeing him in field gear reminds her of Kashmir, of those first tentative steps of trust between them after twenty years.

Irina sets aside the map of Svogda she's been studying and looks up at her husband.

"How long do we have?"

Regret threads through his gaze, and his voice is soft. "An hour until we land in Los Angeles. I didn't - Chase overruled me. My authority as Acting Director of APO isn't enough for her to overlook your involvement. I'm sorry."

He's trying to keep it polite, but she can see the tension thrumming through his shoulders and back. Apologies are simply the tip of the iceberg, though it's nice to hear from him.

"Jack, come here," she says, willing him to read the look in her eyes.

 _I will try to forgive you._

It is, as ever, swift and torrential between them. He sinks to his knees in front of her, hands gently resting on her knees. His mouth touches her navel, gentle against the bruises and her concave stomach. Tonight was the first real food she'd had in months, the first time she'd used a shower and worn clean clothes. And yet, even when she was beaten and filthy in that jungle in Guatemala, Jack still looked at her the same way - with complete astonishment and love.

He pushes the shirt over her head, leaving her bare from the waist up (the CIA apparently didn't keep her bras), and lays a hand over the zipper at her waist. At his pleading look, she nods, lifting her hips as he eases her pants over her hips and drops them on the floor next to him.

"Oh, Irina," he murmurs, hands tracing the bruises that mar her skin. He always had big hands, strong and sure, but they feel bigger now, stronger against her beaten body. "Look at you. How could she do this?"

Irina doesn't want to think about Elena now, not with her husband on his knees for her. She leans down and kisses him quiet, mouth soft and pliant the way she used to kiss him as Laura. Her legs lock around his back, pulling him to her. He groans at the feel of her, damp through cotton panties, alive and wanting in a way she hasn't been for too long.

She reaches for his belt buckle, but his hand on her wrist stops her. Jack has a long-familiar expression on his face, albeit one she hasn't seen in twenty years: _You're exhausted. Let me take care of you._

Breathing hurts, like she's been kicked in the gut, and after god-knows-how-many months in that bunker, she's familiar with the feeling. This isn't something she ever expected out of him; they did a lot of things in that year they believed their daughter dead, but it was never gentle. It hurt. Hurting Jack was easy for her, a petty blow in retaliation for a personal crime. Just another tally mark in their endless battle.

Tenderness is almost unbearable.

He removes his jacket, pulling her forward and tucking it behind her head. then lays her back on the corner bench. His mouth burns as it touches her, a small bruise on her ankle from that run through the jungle that he first kisses, then laves with his tongue. Then, higher, an old scar on her calf from some barbed wire in Chechnya, the bullet wound on her knee she got in a firefight in Marrakesh, and a longer, more thorough exploration of the restraint bruises from Elena's machines across her thighs.

They don't have much time, though, and his hands brace her hips as he brushes his mouth over her cunt. The cotton is soaked, and Irina revels in the feeling of pure, sharp arousal and the insistent throb in her blood. He inhales deeply, and laughs against her as she grits out a few choice curses in Russian and Serbian.

"Don't make me beg, Jack," she whispers into his ear. "I want your mouth."

He tugs her underwear off and pulls her legs over his shoulders, her bare toes curling against his back. "You have it," he says, and runs two fingers through her soaked cunt, parting her for him. "You have all of me. You always have."

And she wants to scream when his tongue touches her, wants to pull his hair and shout and urge him on, but they have to be quiet. He knows her, though, can chart the course her desire takes and drive her higher and higher for it. She stifles her cries with his jacket, drenched in his sweat and scent, and arches against the cabin bench. He traces her opening with a finger, so gently she curses him, and he soothes her with lazy, firm strokes of his tongue.

She comes shaking around him, almost completely by surprise. It's like that with Jack; sometimes, she doesn't expect it. He knows what she wants now, though, knows she needs it again and he slides two fingers inside of her. He fucks her with them, not as rough as she'd like, but with his mouth humming against her clit, she doesn't care. His movements are precise, methodical - no one has ever had to tell Jack Bristow twice how to please a woman - and soon she's pleading around the cotton of his jacket.

The second time, it's that gorgeous wash of a climax, pulling her under. He eases her down, leaning up to kiss her with a mouth that's slick with her release. He wipes his hands carelessly on his pant leg, paying attention instead to sliding back down her body and licking the wetness from her thighs.

She gives him a questioning look when he still hasn't taken care of his own pleasure, and he shakes his head.

"This is for you. Don't worry about me."

He retrieves a clean pair of panties from her bag and smooths them up her legs and onto her hips. She steps back into her pants while he tugs the shirt over her head and pulls her hair back, finger-combing it back from her face. He always loved her hair.

The landing warning light clicks on, and Irina looks up at Jack ruefully.

"It's time."

They go back out to the main cabin and buckle themselves in opposite Sydney and Nadia. If the girls are curious why Jack and Irina are sitting next to each other after the tense atmosphere of the past day, they don't show it.

Jack's hand covers hers as they descend towards Los Angeles and captivity.


End file.
